


Crime Pays

by Scibie



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Eventual Romance, Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:29:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scibie/pseuds/Scibie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Los Santos is no stranger to gang activity. Ryan Haywood is no stranger to murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lonely Duet

In the city of Los Santos, the citizens had learnt, the hard way, that crime paid. It did more than pay, it acted as the most lucrative sector of the city's economy, for better or for worse, far exceeding the profits of the bustling (but slowly stagnating) tourism industry.

Once, Ryan had been a budding economist, fresh from his studies, ready to work his way to the top of the food chain. Posted in Los Santos by the firm he had chosen to conquer, he'd been innocent to the ways of crime, though proficient in the ways of guns, as any boy raised in a backwoods Georgian town ought to be. The cleverest of an assortment of siblings, he'd thought big, dreamt bigger and achieved even more than his thoughts and dreams put together, or so he'd thought when he'd got the job. 

But good things did not last, when his office was stormed by the biggest gang of Los Santos, RWBY, he'd seen firsthand the dark underbelly that his superior (who now was lying on the floor in front of him, bullet lodged firmly in his skull) had not bothered to warn him about.  
Ryan had been one of the few to survive that raid, but he did not come away unscathed - he came away with a shrink's bill a mile long and no job to pay for it. Something in him had broken when he saw the glassy eyes of his office partners, cold and lifeless, and the handfuls of meds that his psychologist threw at him were never enough.

As his life fell apart, the old motto of Los Santos haunted him: 'Crime Pays'. Drugged to high hell, desperate, Ryan had pooled the last of his money to buy a gun, a simple pistol, cheap on the black market and began his descent into the same world that had destroyed his life. 

Broke and out of meds, his first crime had been brutal, premeditated and utterly perfect. Ryan was an intelligent man with a broken mind, crime was his perfect outlet. Triple homicide, some people a small town thug had wanted dead for a pretty price. When the police found the bodies, they were stripped of all recognisable features, of any clues to their identity, their documents and of all their valuable possessions. 

As he delved deeper into the Los Santos underworld, Ryan stopped wasting money on the meds that did nothing to keep the bad dreams and homicidal urges away, spent it more wisely on better weaponry and a recognisable image for his personal brand of crazy. Soon every gang wanted his business soon, yet few could afford the services of the killer in the skull mask.  
No one knew why Ryan had chosen the Fake AH Crew, an up and coming gang, not notable in any way, to lend his talents to, but it was to the hands of Geoff Ramsey and Jack Pattillo that Ryan gave his skills. The gang grew strong under their hands, larger, new recruits coming in thick and fast. However no one ever saw James Ryan Haywood's face, not even his gang mates. It was his brand, his image, his comfort and his protection, keeping what shattered pieces of his sanity Ryan had managed to collect away from those who might exploit it. Steel in his eyes and superiority dripping from his tongue, Ryan became feared, valued and respected in the gang he'd chosen to call his own.

Geoff had a habit of putting Ryan together with young rookies, to scare them into obedience, and today was no different. His partner was a Mr Gavin Free, an import from England of all places, a supposed demolitions expert. Ryan didn't like explosives (unless they were sticky bombs) because they weren't discrete, lacked tact and required a cleanup op after their inevitable failure. He'd said as much to Geoff, but the man had shrugged him off and told him to do his goddamn job. There was something in the Brit's eyes that sung chaos and two weeks overtime when he fucked up. "Please, whatever you do, Free, don't make a mess." Ryan growled into the comms system. "You're just meant to spook the target. Flush him out so I can take the shot, you understand?"

A cocky, lilting Oxfordshire accent buzzed through the earpiece that Ryan had wedged in his ear only that morning, obnoxious even when obscured slightly by static. "My job is to blast the buggers sky-high you-"

"Subtly. You're meant to 'blast the buggers sky-high' subtly. Or have you forgotten what stealth means?" Ryan interjected before the Brit could launch into a string of colourful and exotic insults. There was a pause over the radio, a quiet rush of static which the contract killer assumed was his partner-in-crime sighing, before Free replied.

"I was just playing with you Haywood, I'll blast them. Subtly." The British voice mumbled, disappointment clear even over the poor quality connection. Who did the explosives expert think he was? Ryan had killed men for less than a simple joke. If Free wasn't a Ramsey favourite, he probably would have put a bullet through his skull months ago. The grating accent, the ridiculous improvised vocabulary, the tendency to fuck up in the most spectacular method possible - they all added up to a constant, pressing itch in his trigger finger and a wonderfully thumping headache as he dealt with the foreign idiot. But Geoff Ramsey liked him, so Ryan was also forced to tolerate him, lest he wanted to lose the closest thing left to an accepting family he had. 

Free's voice in his ear lapsed him out of his thoughts. "The explosives are in place. Is target in position?" Bright, intelligent, but chilling eyes searched the glass-fronted building from behind a  
the mask fashioned in the shape of a skull, checking the board room that their target was due to be standing in at this very second. Some businessman who owed the crew a good pile of money. Once Ryan would have felt sorry for the man, who had clearly bitten off more than he could chew in the criminal underworld of Los Santos, but now he was merely another target, a faceless man in a suit who would be added to the considerable body count of Ryan's many jobs.  
"Target is in position. Clear?" He growled, soft and low into his mic, lowering his gaze to the street below him, to where the target was predicted to run out. 

There was a quiet chuckle from Gavin over the radio. "Clear. Good to go?" Ryan muttered an affirmative. 

Silence followed as the two men waited for the detonation, Ryan collecting himself and steadying his breath to ensure an accurate shot. He couldn't afford to miss. When the explosion came, the Georgian did not even flinch, ignoring the fire blossoming a few floors above his target, preferring to focus on the man that was being hastily evacuated from the building. Free had managed to pull off his task it seemed, Ryan mused in the back of his mind as he scoured the crowd rushing from the building, finger resting lightly on the trigger of the sniper rifle he had angled at the doors. 

The confusion and panic did well to stifle the silenced gunshot but even so, when a man collapsed with a neat hole in his forehead, the panic crescendoed, the mass of people trampling each other in an effort to put some distance between themselves and the dead man. 

It didn't matter to Ryan. His job was done and the stampeding mass would do well to distract the police while he made his get away. The motorcycle was ready for him, tucked away inconspicuously in a back-alley a few blocks away. He had taken the mask off, as to be less noticeable in the throng of people, but as he approached his getaway vehicle, he noticed a scrawny and instantly recognisable man leant against it. Instantly recognisable because he could hear the thick, British accent as Gavin Free, the Oxfordshire 'demolitions expert' chatted animatedly into his phone, back turned to Ryan. 

No one in the Fake AH Crew had ever seen Ryan without his mask before. Yet Ryan couldn't don his mask now, with a murder case so close by and his name probably cropping up in the police investigation. "Free. What are you doing?" He growled into the comms system, still far enough away that the preoccupied Brit had not heard him approach. 

It was amusing to see Free jump when he heard his voice, and more so to hear him squawk in surprise. It wasn't when he heard the response. "O-oh... Well... I can't drive... Sir." 

Gavin, once he recovered from the shock and his racing heart (Ryan was intimidating in person, he felt less comfortable joking with him standing there, almost casting a shadow on the sky with his broad figure) almost shyly turned to see his literal partner in crime. Only to see someone almost completely different. He had expected the infamous skeletal mask, the piercing blue beneath. Instead he saw tan brown hair, ruffled slightly from a hasty removal of the signature mask, eyes ringed with black greasepaint, highlighting the ice that was the last sight many ever saw. He saw a condescending smirk, a sparkle of cruelty. He saw the true face of Ryan Haywood. Somehow, his civilian identity was even more terrifying than his criminal mask.  
"You can't drive." Was the reply as Ryan gauged his reaction, striking eyes flicking over his features to read his response, irritation clear in his tone. 

Shocked into formality, Gavin merely nodded slightly with a soft 'yessir', lump heavy in his throat.  
Frustration danced across Ryan's face, the man used to having a mask to hide his emotions. He could see the Brit's eyes scanning him quickly, unwilling to linger and break some unknown rule and incite the older man's wrath. With a quiet yet sudden huff, the kind that reminded Gavin of the snort of a nervous bull, thick and intimidating but with a hint of uncertainty, Ryan prowled over to his motorcycle and sat himself upon the seat, patting the space behind roughly, not even bothering to face the younger man. "Get on. There's no helmet, don't complain." The masked killer grunted, evidently not amused with the arrangement but seeing no alternative. 

The bike dipped slightly when the gangly demolitions expert clambered onto it, the machine used to merely having Ryan's weight to ferry across the city. Its owner's shoulders rose slightly at the new passenger, muscles in his back visibly tightening when Gavin had the nerve to wrap his arms around his waist. The Brit himself wasn't thinking, both apprehensive of his driver and of riding a motorcycle - for a criminal he was surprisingly sheltered, more at home on the streets than on high-speed transport of any kind. He could feel the unwelcoming aura that Ryan gave off, promising a swift end to any who thought they knew better, but he pressed himself into his 'babysitter' (Gavin knew better than to think Ryan was there for any other reason than to keep him relatively safe and under control) and closed his eyes and he felt the engine of the powerful machine roar below him, the idling motor sending vibrations through the two riders. With a quick grunt, Ryan sped them away, thrill in his heart at the rush of wind and the blur of the cityscape as they drove, familiar grin stretching across his face as he felt his heart beat with the delight of simple pleasures. His passenger, in contrast, wanted nothing more than to stay still for an eternity and never feel the blasts of air rip at his skin and clothes nor the acute dips in the road when the bike's suspension did not quite take up the shock. His arms only wound a little tighter around the waist in front of him, skin flush with the thin cotton shirt Ryan had donned to slink back into the faceless crowd of Los Santos. Hearts in their throats for vastly contrasting reasons, the pair screamed through the bustling and congested highways, dodging traffic carelessly. They were headed toward the backwoods of Blaine County, sun fierce on their backs as the pair peeled away onto rough country roads, Haywood's navigation perfect even at such extreme speeds. 

The blurred landscape smeared into earthy browns and flashes of green, the bike struggling to keep pace on the uneven road surfaces, forcing Ryan to kill his speed lest he wanted to end up dead in the middle of fuck-knows or risk his charge vomiting (he'd caught snatches of retching from behind him). Mount Chiliad loomed above them, dominating the skyline in the rural North of the island. The lower speeds prompted Gavin to pry his open eyes to check where they'd gotten to, only to squawk when he saw the sheer cliff on one side of the road that seemed to loom closer the faster they moved. The fear made him clutch Ryan all the harder, burying his face into the cotton, shameless in his terror. Busy ensuring that they remained on the road and not over the cliff, the older man pretended not to notice, but his eyes narrowed slightly, an unamused grimace stretching across his lips. There was little he could do, the Brit was Geoff's to deal with and he would be eviscerated if he lay a hand on the demolitions 'expert', so Ryan grimaced and bore it. They weren't far away now, not with Mount Chiliad towering above them, casting a long shadow over the desert as the sun sank and spilled butter-gold light over the world. 

The wind rushing in Gavin's ears halted suddenly, the bike tipping slightly to the side as Ryan rested the weight of it to one side on one leg, prompting his passenger to do the same with a jolt.  
"Why... why have we stopped?" He asked, a little out of breath. The Brit found himself glancing around to try and find the clues to answer his own question, but found none, and turned his gaze to his driver once more, only to see him hurriedly wrestling his mask back on, pointedly not catching Gavin's gaze. "...oh. Uh. Do you not go around without that on?" He finished, a little cheekily, knowing he was treading a thin line.

He wasn't rewarded for his audacity because all Ryan did was grunt unhelpfully and rev the powerful engine, his small sound almost obscured by the growl of the machine. It didn't really matter that the masked man hadn't answered - this was just another job, he was going to get paid in under an hour. It was just a question to pass the time, a vague curiosity. The demolitions expert wondered if he was one of the first to see the infamous Ryan Haywood's face without dying horribly afterwards. Gavin realised he was probably still in danger of the 'dying horribly' part and leant away a little from the contract killer. 

The entrance to the ‘lair’ of the Fake AH Crew was surprisingly well hidden and thought out - Jack, their pilot and intel manager, had once worked in the transport sector of the city and the surrounding area and had found a disused tunnel system underneath the tallest peak in the region, empty and decaying, while performing routine maintenance. When Geoff and he had met, first as friends, then as co-founders of the gang, it had seemed the perfect place. It was hidden, unknown to most, impenetrable and extensive. Even with their growing base of operations, they still had not managed to claim the entirety of the warren below Mount Chiliad. Yes, it was damp and dark and sometimes they had to contend with rats and other pests that squirmed and thrived in the dark, but it was home enough and easily converted with Jack’s construction knowledge and Geoff’s grand vision for something more than a cushy life in the suburbs. Some gang members had rooms there, for hiding from the law and for their less than savoury inventories, some preferred to live away from the mountain and only visit, but none could deny that Mount Chiliad was the hub and home of them all. 

It was therefore no surprise to Gavin when Ryan took a concealed track that lead to what appeared to be a dead end, only to roar down a concrete passage and into the mountain. The passage was usually locked, closed tight with blast doors that had been there since the day the gang had moved in, but the pair were expected - the entrance was open slightly with Ray, another recent acquisition known for his jokey attitude and his incredible marksmanship, stood just inside. Watching the road with sharp eyes, signature hot pink sniper rifle (all real men liked pink, he would say with such certainty that no one dared to argue) trained ahead at all times, he hovered at the entrance, ready to fire off a warning lest anyone stray too near. With Haywood and Free inside, the doors could close once more and the marksman could get off duty.  
At last the motorcycle came to a halt inside the main hall of the base, Gavin climbed off with shaky legs and an unsettled stomach, hair blown into such mess that put even his signature ruffled look to shame. His driver chuckled darkly as he wheeled his ride into its designated space before the air between the two grew chilled with a sudden turn of emotions. 

“I will kill you Free, if you even mention seeing me without the mask. Understood? I don’t care if you’re Ramsey’s favourite or not: you will die and it will look to everyone but our ‘lovely’ doctor that it was an accident.” He growled softly before prowling off into the dim network of tunnels, not waiting for a reply. He didn’t need one; he knew the shaky-legged Brit did not have the spine to test that threat. Of course Jeremy, the resident medic, could tell how Free died, but a simple transaction would easily buy his silence. Though if Ryan was honest, Jeremy was an incompetent medic - his favourite method of treatment being throwing random drugs at his patients and hoping for the best. Yet it always seemed to work, so who could complain? You didn’t get into the Fake AH Crew without at least a glimmer of skill. Only the best, Geoff would say with a sneer twitching on his lips. Only the best, apart from the cannon-fodder, hired to distract and die for being talentless petty criminals. 

So Ryan stalked through the tunnels, watching as others shied away from his menacing stride and feeling the immense satisfaction of it all. A report to Geoff and a quick debrief with Jack and he would be off-duty and free to do as he pleased. 

Geoff Lazer Ramsey was not the sort of man most took for the leader of a influential organised crime circle. With lazy, tired eyes and a tendency to drink, he seemed to all the image of disorganisation and inefficiency as he lounged in his chair, bottle of whisky in one hand and a pen in the other as he monitored the various Crew accounts and members. It seemed as though the entire affair of running the Fake AH Crew was somewhat of a passing amusement to him, cracking jokes in the worst of times and eyes shining with mirth at the mention of yet another RWBY turf war. However Ryan could see that behind the humour and the alcoholism Geoff was a cold blooded mobster who saw his gang as his crooked family - demanding respect but caring for the ones who proved themselves as his own sons and daughters. No, Haywood could see the bloodlust so similar to his own, the twisted morals that made killing seem right and fear the best motivator of all. It was part of what had drawn him to Ramsey, the feeling of belonging and understanding the two shared. It was not as if The Fake AH Crew had been the first gang he'd seen but after what RWBY had done to his psyche and potential career, he refused their employment, even with the substantially more promising pay check and the strength that came with their numbers. 

So when the masked man stepped into Geoff's office he was greeted as a friend rather than a colleague, Ramsey getting up to give him a warm welcome and offer him a drink. Deep in his heart, Haywood hoped that the friendship Ramsey demonstrated was more than an act to keep him in the gang, but he was not about to delude himself: Ramsey was just as heartless as him.  
"Sir." He began as Geoff sat himself back down. "The mission, it went without a hitch but..." His employer raised a bushy eyebrow, his hand pausing from smoothing one tip of his trademark handlebar moustache. "Free... He's just... a liability. I know you like him. It just worries me." He admitted honestly, hoping Ramsey would understand that it was merely concern that prompted his words, not a grudge. 

There was a short huff from the other side of the desk at which both were sat, Geoff lounging with an unreadable expression on his face, Ryan on the other with his own expression hidden by a layer of moulded plastic, voice masked with practice, cool and uncaring to the untrained ear. "Haywood, no, Ryan. You've been with me from the start, and I hope that by now you see us as some sort of family, but Free is my responsibility. He's here because _I_ chose him. He's a real diamond in the rough - it's just a question of how much polishing he will need. I mean, no offence, but you were crazy as dicks before we moulded you into something a little less mad, right? No one comes here perfect. I understand your concern." There was a 'but' in Geoff's speech somewhere, and the concerned man knew not to interrupt, as his boss had a habit of pausing to think his words through carefully. It was an important aspect of his job, especially when dealing with the less than stable. 

"... that's why I want him to stick with you." Geoff finished, caution in his tone as he moved away almost unnoticeably in the event that Haywood went haywire. 

"Sir, I am better al-" Ryan began, knowing it was all but useless to argue but trying all the same.  
Seeing that his masked killer was about to protest, Ramsey lifted a hand to silence him. "He listens to you, he obeys you. You're the first partner that he's not screwed up a mission with and your concern over his efficiency is exactly what he needs to nudge him in the right direction. Ryan, I know you don't like him and I know you don't like explosives, but suck it up. We all get missions we don't like." 

There was no use arguing - this had all been planned well in advance, Ryan could tell. "...yes sir." He finally agreed through gritted teeth, because, fuck it all, Ramsey was right as always. "I understand. Does this mean our missions..." 

Looking up from some paperwork, Geoff gave Haywood a sadistic smile. "Oh yes, they'll be the same. You'll be working with him from now until the time comes that I'm happy with his progress." With that, the gang leader gestured vaguely for Ryan to leave, shooing him out with one hand while reading some other report of intel or finance as the masked man rose from his seat and walked out of the room as calmly as he could, frustrated at Geoff's irritating accuracy in pairing people up and for knowing exactly what got under his skin. Jack would know what Geoff had planned for him, strangely kind-hearted Jack who kept a sense of morality about him and acted as a confidante for so many of the crew, even though whatever they told him went straight to Ramsey. It was not as though no one knew that what they admitted went straight to the boss - it was common knowledge - but Jack was so warm and friendly that no one cared. In some ways it made their lives easier, because it meant that any issues they didn't feel they could tell to Geoff still ended up reaching his ear. And Geoff Lazer Ramsey looked after his crew. 

Jack was usually to be found in the garage along with Matt, both smeared with oil and debating the fine points of this brand of nitrox versus another, or if this paint job would be less conspicuous than that. Matt himself was a very new acquisition, still green but rising quickly among the ranks. In what seemed like a first, he and Jeremy had approached the Fake AH Crew and asked to join, rather than the other way around. Usually it was an invitation-only affair, but together they had quickly proved they were important and useful assets to have around so were quickly sworn in. 

Matt 'AxialMatt' Bragg was a wanted and well-known felon in Los Santos, famous for a highly visible series of car thefts and speedy hot rodding jobs that had him racing through the streets with an entourage of police cars on his tail, only to evade them easily. His skill in modifying and driving cars and motorcycles made him well-suited to being the gang mechanic and vehicle-modifier - it was unusual to see him without his trademark oil smears over his overalls and face. 

The educated guess Ryan took to Jack's location paid off as he stepped into the well-stocked garage to find Jack and Matt bent over together, peering into the inner workings of a truck. Soft voices carried over to where Ryan stood in the doorway: 'it just needs cleaning'...'no.'...'huh?'...'look, the engine needs repairing'...'if we had cleaned the engine we could have seen that fault'...'extra work though'. 

"Jack." Haywood said loudly, clearing his throat so as to catch the man's attention. "Debrief." He added as way of explanation for his interruption as the bearded man's face appeared from the truck's innards only to soften with understanding. 

"Got it. Bragg, you're staying until you fix this truck. I want it done by tonight. Then check Haywood's bike. Tonight." He ordered to the recruit with his head still under the hood, who made a vague gesture with a grimy hand that signalled he understood before focusing on the vehicle once more. Jack smiled to Ryan before leading him out of the garage, leaving Matt to his work.  
"He's a good kid, talented too. Glad we have him." He said amiably as they strolled through one of the many tunnels. "Knows so much about hot rodding and modification; our vehicular arsenal is going to be really badass." He paused and studied his companion's body language as they walked, used to having to try and guess Ryan's emotions due to the constant presence of the infamous mask. Seeing the disinterest, he changed subject abruptly. "How was the mission?" He asked, the jovial air of his regular speech quickly abandoned. Ryan explained the setup and the plan's success with clipped sentences and an edge of detachment, used to this process now.  
"...and your partner, Gavin David Free? How was he?" Jack questioned softly, understanding before he even bothered to investigate that Haywood and Free were unlikely to be friendly.  
The change in the masked man's body language was immediate at the mention of Gavin's name. "Immature, insincere, unprofessional." He remarked, an obvious tinge of dislike and scorn in the statement. "Used the comms too much, hadn't arranged his escape plan properly, couldn't handle himself on a bike with me." 

The ginger-bearded face of Jack Pattillo, pilot and intelligence manager of the Fake AH Crew, hardened, the soft lines suddenly sharp. "So, he wasn't you, Haywood, is that it? Didn't want to take the lone wolf, holier-than-thou, 'I'm a machine' approach? You were a team. You are meant to _communicate_ and work _together_ , and you will be expected to in the future too. It's time you learned to play with the others." 

Ryan bristled, his shoulders rising and fists clenching as he turned to the pilot to protest. "I do work with the others! Ray and I-" 

Brown eyes, simultaneously chilling and kind, stared at Ryan through thick glasses, challenging him to say more. "The only person you ever work with is Ray. The only person you ever talk to without being forced to is Ray. And you only do that because you like talking guns with him. That's not working with the crew, that's using Narvaez because he happens to have knowledge in an area you're interested in. We know you're messed up Haywood, that's why you're here, but you won't be here for much longer if you don't get over yourself and work with the others."  
Burning anger boiled in the killer’s gut at the ultimatum as well as the rarity of a harsh word from the usually mollifying Pattillo, shame burning in his heart as he searched for a suitable response - nothing too irate and nothing too soft lest he wanted his reputation scarred forever within his own crew. It was a long time coming, this wakeup call he’d worked so hard to avoid, but it had only ever been a matter of time until he was forced to properly join the Fake AH Crew rather than sit on the sidelines and do as told when necessary. Evidently today was that day and his strange reintroduction to the realms of ‘friendship’ and ‘camaraderie’ was going to be as rough as possible. 

Anything involving Gavin ‘Toppy Tippers’ Free was generally inefficient and difficult with a side of fury-inciting idiocy, not to mention a whole dictionary’s worth of what Haywood considered freshly conceived slang and nonsensical phrasing.

Yes, the next few months would be _fun_.


	2. Hollow Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin Free, resident foreigner of The Fake AH Crew, was good at two things: blowing stuff up and being lippy.

Good days can go pear-shaped very quickly. You only needed one accident to flip what should have been cause for celebration on its head. A successful mission and an all-but-seamless getaway generally were elements that contributed to a good day at the ‘office’, but Gavin wasn’t sure he could call a death threat from a psycho a positive contribution. There was no question about it - he knew Haywood meant what he’d said, wouldn’t hesitate to put a gun to his head in the night and watch impassively as his brain matter stained the pillow a vivid scarlet. It wasn’t even a mistake on the Brit’s part as such. An oversight, perhaps, but not a mistake. He should’ve said he couldn’t drive, yes, but he had assumed (maybe a little stupidly) that Ryan would have no qualms ferrying him back to Mount Chiliad. There was no way he could have known the mask would be off. There was no way he could have known how protective Ryan was of his own identity. 

In hindsight it should have been obvious, but Free had a bad history with the ‘obvious’. Haywood, mysterious, skull-faced Haywood, who lurked in the shadows and transformed his victims into something that barely resembled human - twisted limbs and blossoms of human offal - would be protective of himself. Haywood was a high profile criminal, on the top ten most wanted list of Los Santos. Free was down for petty arson and shoplifting mostly: his greatest work attributed to others who managed their images better than he ever could. 

It wasn’t as though Gavin was unable to keep a secret… per se. More his problem with incessant babbling. He swore he couldn’t help it - that he couldn’t control his mouth and the secrets that tumbled from his lips - but it made him unpopular amongst people like Ryan. The ones with secrets to keep and dangerous auras to uphold. No wonder Haywood had treated him so coldly - he was probably worried that his secret would end up in the criminal domain just as so many had done before. It had been the reason Free had been forced to leave England. 

As a teenager Gavin had been happy enough - living in Oxfordshire in the wealthiest region of the United Kingdom, with a loving family and great education - but the problem with being happy in such a ‘perfect’ area was how boring it was. Thame, for all its boutique stores and cultural heritage, its cobbled side streets and affluent small town economy, was very tame (in his memory the Brit remembered making this joke to his best friend Dan, playing on the fact that ‘Thame’ was said exactly like ‘tame’). He had wanted something more than to grow up, go to a nice university, get a good enough job and settle down to white picket fences and two-point-two children. There’d been a low level of crime in Thame, nothing special: a few youths who thought they owned the world. Antisocial behaviour, petty thievery, a few counts of shoplifting. Yet to the sheltered Free it had seemed like a new world of risk and rule breaking. It started innocently: new friends, a sense of belonging tinged by the thrill of ignoring the law. Then the drugs and sex (but no rock and roll) came into play and suddenly Gavin David Free found himself way out of his depth and his friends steadily trickling into Young Offenders Institutes and Community Service. There was drug dealing and watching as people’s lives were torn apart by chemical addiction. There was violent crime and the feeling of tacky blood clotting on his skin, guilt that sank heavily in his gut whenever he tried to lever the flaking burgundy from under nails torn short by nervous nibbling. Once a driving license had been placed into his hands, his sphere of influence was suddenly so huge, so promising, that Gavin dived headfirst into all of the mortal sins of crime without so much as a glance behind him. 

The guilt had been the worst part at first. It would keep him awake at night as he turned over the haunted and betrayed looks of all the people he found himself taking advantage of in pursuit of ‘something more’ in his mind. It would churn his stomach in the quiet moments of his life (he tried so hard to avoid them, surrounding himself with noise and bustling and business). Then came the anxiety; the fear he’d be caught like his ‘friends’ had, the fear that somehow the karma would find him one day and he would pay for the increasingly awful things he was doing. This time he slept, but fitfully, nightmares and burdens of conscience filling his mind. The quiet moments made him jumpy, nervous. He couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t turn a corner without worrying that retribution would be there. 

Finally came the emptiness. The hollow echo of emotions that should have been there but weren’t. Gavin wanted to be scared but he couldn’t find space in the vacuum of his own mind to feel the appropriate fear. The guilt wasn’t there any longer. The anxiety was long gone. Each day felt like the one before and the one after, endless repetition on a backdrop of a scheme of humanity much grander than his tiny, insignificant criminal life.  
Thame wasn’t enough then. It had never really been enough. With that, Gavin dropped out of education, out of his happy little life, out of Oxfordshire and its rolling green hills and sunny meadows; abandoned it all and made a move for London. 

He’d envisioned a fresh start. A big city. More to do. Distraction from the lawless life he’d lived for the last three years. Yet felony had a habit of crawling back into your life no matter how hard you tried otherwise. For Gavin, it only took three months of living off the minimum wage for him to see the rich and powerful around him, hoarding money that he reckoned they would never use, to break. More specifically, burn down some nice building just off Regents Park out of pure spite. Word got around. He found himself some new London buddies, fell back into old routines with new friends. It was fine. For a little. It felt like before to an extent. Yet that nagging emptiness still clung to him: colourless and unseen to the world as a eighteen year old Oxfordshire boy ran amok on the streets of London, progressively digging his hole a little deeper every day, the dirt piling up in his mind in a useless attempt to fill the hollow that his own actions had left behind. Life was on autopilot; he said things without remembering what he said, did things without remembering what he did. Fucked people without remembering who he fucked, stole things without remembering what he stole. 

This went on for two years. Two long years which Gavin watched rather than experienced. It felt like he was floating behind himself, out of his body, merely observing with an empty heart as he ruined his life and the lives of those around him. Loyalty, something so important in the underworld of London where gangs ran wild and connections kept you afloat on a twisted raft of IOUs and promises, was lost on the empty shell that traipsed around the city. Time ticked onward, incessantly progressing while the hands of nations clawed at it to remain behind - and as it did, the friends became enemies: a loosened tongue and careless demeanor washing Gavin into the wanted list of innumerable inner-city gangs. 

All at once, London hated Gavin. After the fifth mugger sent after him for a petty price and the sixth for a not-so-petty one, he knew he had to leave before it escalated any further. Plane tickets were not cheap but Gavin was not poor any longer - now he had two years worth of ill-gotten money under his belt. So he bought a ticket to ‘anywhere in America - whatever’s cheapest’ and never looked back. 

Now he stood in the dank tunnel Ryan had left him in, his existence a product of his own naivety and loose tongue, no longer empty but still way out of his depth. The distant clang of the blast doors shutting distracted him from his retrospective musings, the scuff of dirty checkered shoes on the grimy concrete loud in an otherwise quiet space as the resident sniper made his way back into the complex, whistling the theme tune of pokemon to himself. Narvaez was like that. Gavin wasn’t really sure how he’d even descended into this life, nor how he was so bloody good with his goddamn sniper rifle. The Puerto Rican claimed it was C.O.D no-scoping; Free knew a little better than to peer any deeper into the abyss of his friend’s backstory. Besides, Ray was one his closest friends, both within and outside of the Crew. Best to keep some things hidden and his friendships intact. 

As the sound of a soft ‘I know it’s my des-tin-y, pokemon!’ drifted ever closer, the Brit suddenly realised he’d been stood in the tunnel for a good ten minutes without moving, too deep in thought (and honestly just a smidge terrified) to have considered taking a step. Briskly shaking his head, he jogged toward the cheesy theme song, desperate for company to take his mind off the incident with Haywood. 

There Narvaez was, hands stuffed in his pockets and wearing the same checkered shoes and cargo shorts he wore seemingly every day (rain or shine), purple hoodie from some online video game streaming company zipped up tight to ward against the chill of the subterranean passages and beanie pulled firmly over his ears. “Hey there Gavino, how’d the blowing shit up go?” He called as his fellow crew member caught up to him. Panting slightly, Free caught his breath to reply to the sniper. 

“Bollocks. I mean… we did it. The guy died. But that nutjob, Haywood, he got all mental with me. Freaked me out what with that skull mask and all.” Gavin explained, running a hand through his wind-mussed hair to try and re-mess it to a standard acceptable to himself. “Didn’t hurt me or anything, just was a bit threatening.” He added, to ensure Ray didn’t jump to any conclusions. His friend was silent for a moment as they continued to stroll through the tunnel. Headed towards the rec room, their footsteps echoed softly through concrete muted by lichen and moss, the smell of damp and of exhaust strong here due to its use as a road of sorts. 

Humming thoughtfully, Narvaez gave Gavin what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “He probably just doesn’t like you. Haywood wouldn’t go against Geoff - you’re safe. I mean, Ryan’s okay, once you get to know him. Really smart, like the dude’s got a college education for sure; just a little unhinged. Not sure what happened to him, he should have been a scientist or something, not a crook like us lot.” He didn’t mention that the only time Ryan ever spoke to him was to discuss weaponry and how to get the cleanest kill. Best to keep the naive Brit in the dark over some secrets. 

The rec room was the most comfortable place in the base (mostly due to the five dehumidifiers that constantly whirred in the background and the various pest traps that kept the worst of the rodents and roaches away). Stuffed with meticulously kept sofas and a huge widescreen television, only those who had direct permission from Ramsey were even allowed to step foot in the luxury confines of its clean and well-maintained borders. No one damaged the rec room, lest they wanted to face punitive consequences that rivalled Haywood’s own methods but without the release of death to look forward to. Mostly it was Gavin, Ray, Michael (the motorhead who obtained and drove the fastest of cars and the swiftest of bikes; the man you wanted to see having just committed a bank heist if you wanted a successful getaway) and his fiance, Lindsay (often found with Jack pouring over documents and amassing intelligence on the inner workings of Los Santos) who were to be found there, bickering and playing together on one of the various games consoles hooked up to the television. Friends were important in this line of work - where your enemies were everywhere and the world outside wanted you locked in prison for life and the four of them were solid bros. 

As soon as the two ‘foreigners’ stepped foot into the room an excited New Jersey drawl could be heard screaming at the top of their lungs, blasting the two with a wall of impressive sound. It took a moment, but their ears adjusted to the longest string of curses and vaguely inappropriate insults both would have ever heard… if they hadn’t been friends with the man from whom this impressive yarn of expletives exploded from. The infamous Michael Vincent Jones himself, with a potty mouth but a great aim and unbelievable driving abilities, stood in front of the widescreen; controller clutched in shaking fists as he screeched at the game, his fiance sat in hysterics on a beanbag nearby. 

Internally Gavin smiled to himself, the sight of his friends together and having fun always lifting his heart and assuaging his near-eternal doubts of his life choices. He wasn’t alone, nor empty. He had his friends, he had money, he had something to live for. He had baby-faced Jones, snide-comment-on-the-side Narvaez and sass-meister Tuggey as his wingmen (and women), people he trusted and loved with all his heart. 

Immediately Ray threw himself onto the sofa, sprawling over the plush surface with a grin on his face. "Goddamn went outside today, fucking terrifying." He joked, ignoring the sudden silence and the slow turn of an irate Jones’ head to face Narvaez.  
There was a pause as everyone in the room waited for Michael’s reaction, tense. They were friends, but they were also criminals and perhaps not the most stable of people. No one knew if the New Jerseyite was about to blow or brush it off. 

A few tense seconds passed, punctuated by the gargled screams of Michael’s ingame avatar meeting its fate. It seemed as though no one dared to breathe... Before a wide smile stretched Jones’ lips across his dimpled cheeks and the room filled with his unrestrained laughter. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ nerd Ray. How’d you even get into crime - did’ya Mama have to call Geoff and ask for you to be allowed to join in?”

Far from taking Michael’s insult, Narvaez cracked a smirk and nodded. “Mama Brownman’s got some great connections, you should hit her up sometime.”  
“Already have.” 

And so Gavin sighed at the odd domesticity of it all and strolled into the midst of the familiar people that kept that creeping hollowness out of his heart, adding to the messy conversation when he could and chuckling when he was chewed out for not quite thinking his words through. _Another day in Paradise_ , he thought to himself, about the same time Michael asked if he felt like getting bevs. Never one to pass up on a chance to get blackout drunk, Gavin agreed as those who cling to flimsy friendships and substance abuse tend to do. 

Soon after, Kerry, the newbie that handled the Crew accounts (though not without the watchful eye of Geoff on his work at all times) sheepishly knocked on the door of the rec room and almost fainted when Michael opened it while still roaring with laughter, a squeak of fear on his tongue. 

“Um. Mr Ramsey, uh, wanted to see Mr Free.” He explained timidly, in a voice barely above a whisper, wide and fearful eyes trained on Michael as though he was something wild and unstable. Which wasn’t completely incorrect. 

Once the British man had been summoned with a coarse ‘Oi, Gavin, Boss wants you’ and a chorus of ‘Oooh... what’ve you done this time?’, he found himself strolling calmly next to Kerry, who kept glancing sideways at him in a manner he assumed was an attempt at subtlety. It was a weird feeling, to be feared. Gavin wasn’t sure if he enjoyed it or not. On the one hand, it was nice to have the respect that came with it, but on the other, it made him inapproachable. Since he liked being a guy known for his need for attention (even he could admit that he quite liked being in the spotlight), it wasn’t ideal. 

Regardless, with little Shawcross by his side, twitchy and trembling, Free felt on top of the world. That feeling quickly abandoned him once he stood in front of his boss’ office; the ‘world ruler’ within him evaporating quickly into a ‘naughty schoolboy’. As timid as the man who had led him there, Gavin peeked inside to find Ramsey enjoying a swig of golden liquor straight from the bottle. If it had been any other man than Geoff Lazer Ramsey, Free would have been surprised to see such careless drinking practices in motion while still at work. But not with Geoff, who seemed more capable when drinking that when he was sober. There was always a pang of jealousy in the Brit’s heart that he did not have a similar capacity to work more efficiently while completely smashed. 

“You wanted me sir?” He asked as he let himself in, not one to observe etiquette even within a crime syndicate where, for those below him, it spelt the difference between the labels of ‘useful’ and ‘expendable’. 

“Hello Gavin. I heard your mission went well today: you managed to control the destruction very well, and for now it seems as though you left no evidence either, since current reports on the web say the LSPD are at loss about the case.” Staying silent but glowing with the praise, the demolitions expert nodded. “But you and your partner… there was some friction.” Pausing for a moment, running a hand through his hair, Geoff wondered if he was going grey from the stress of keeping such a notorious bunch from murdering one another. “Look Gav, I know Haywood isn’t the ideal… workmate.. but you gel well together. He keeps you in line and you keep him in line, and I’m not sure how that even happens, because I’d have you down as the sort of guy Ryan murders on the first meeting, but somehow I need you two to collaborate. Inside and outside missions. You have to crack him open, just be yourself. Hang out with him, invite him for bevs, I don’t care - just get into his mind and tell me about his thoughts. He’s unstable and I can’t let his motives stay unchecked any longer.” 

The words echoed around the younger man’s headspace for a moment. “You want me… to monitor Haywood.” He confirmed softly, an edge of terror thickening his accent a little more than usual. “But Haywood… he hates me… he’ll murder me if I try to get close to him.” 

A knowing chuckle startled him slightly as Geoff gave him a sideways glance that spoke volumes. “He knows about this already Gavin. And he’s begrudgingly agreed to be your partner, because I told him he needs to learn teamwork. You need to learn to keep your mouth shut at the right times. You’re too lippy. But if you’re lippy with Ryan, I don’t think talking is going to be the worst of your problems? Get it?” 

A small twitch, possibly a shiver, ran through Free’s lanky body. “O-oh.” He mumbled under his breath, biting his lip. “I… see.” 

Another swig of whisky, blue eyes watching from the other side of the desk as his boss’ adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I’m sorry Gav. I’m really sorry… but you’ve gotta learn and he’s gotta learn, fuck… it’s going to be tough. Tough as dicks. But I know you can do it.” 

The kind words flowed like the alcohol from the bottle, before he could stopper them. Ryan hadn’t been wrong. He had a good intuition that Haywood. The man listened. Knew that somehow his boss’ heart, his hardened icy heart, was soft when it came to Gavin. God, it was soft for Jack, for Ray and for Michael, for Lindsay and Jeremy and Matt. For Kdin and Caleb and, god, even tiny little Kerry with his stuttering and impeccable mathematics. Somehow, even for Haywood. How could he even call himself a gang leader? He had watched tens of his ‘expendables’ die, but it broke his heart to even imagine one of his main crew dead.  
“...sir?” Came the reluctant reminder of his colleague.  
Shaking his head, he waved a dismissive hand. “Go on, off you go. Tomorrow you start.” 

Shakily Gavin exited his office, almost running straight into a waiting Michael, who had been stood outside, worry clear on his face. Two warm hands clutched at the flustered man’s shoulders, pulling him to a halt and grounding him. “Gav? What’s up?” 

There was a concerned freckled face in front of him, worry etched into those familiar features. “Mi-Michael… U-uh…” For a moment he thought what to say. “I… I’ve gotta work with Ryan from now on.” The outrage that shot across Jones’ face was the opposite reaction to what Free wanted. “N-no it’s okay, it’s okay. I trust Geoff.” 

“D’you want bevs?” Michael proposed suddenly. “We can unwind, you can tell me everything, we can plan this together. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” The same cute little smile, the one that brought out the dimples on those sweet freckled cheeks, lit up the dim tunnel for Gavin and he found himself agreeing against his better judgement. 

With that, a strong calloused hand grabbed his own and dragged him away, through the complex to the garage, where Matt was laid underneath Ryan’s motorcycle, tinkering away. The mere image of the bike made Gavin blanch, but he didn’t have time to reminisce - he was tugged into Michael’s signature chrome Adder, the engine of the beast of a machine purring as Jones tempted it awake. 

Unlike his earlier high-speed journey, Gavin felt safe now, warm and comfortable, the landscape speeding past but disconnected from him - no wind in his hair or hot sun on his back. He knew Michael's skill in driving was top-notch, the feet on the pedals and the hands on the wheel steady and calculated, trained to react to the tiniest change on the road. The sun had sunk down below the horizon now, tinting the sky a faint purple at its edges, the sparkling lights of Los Santos spread out in front of the Adder's darkened windows, mapping out the city in unequal glow - the richer areas luminescent and neon, the poorer the faint yellow glow of streetlights. It was a breathtaking sight, when you had the time to stop and look; made you feel powerful, godlike. Gavin knew Geoff liked spending evenings on Mount Chiliad just gazing at the city he ransacked for a job, a grim but thoughtful expression on his face with a frown and a slight pout. Ramsey may have had a conscience deep down in his being, squirrelled away where he felt no one could see it. Everyone knew better than to ask however. 

It was then that Michael spoke up. “Gavin.” He said softly, loud enough to pull his friend’s eyes away from the view that lay in front of them. “Are you okay? You seemed shaken today. Like Haywood had done or said something… and then with Ramsey…” The driver’s eyes were still trained on the road as they sped along at well past the speed limit but it was obvious that there was an undertone of tender care that sounded odd from someone so prone to rage. 

Biting his lip slightly, Gavin thought his words though. “I… Haywood scares me. And now I have to work with him 24/7. I’m just feeling a little apprehensive. I mean Ryan wasn’t exactly… friendly today. I uh… made a mistake.”  
“  
A mistake?” Michael asked softly. 

Glancing over to the focused man next to him, he hesitated. “You can’t tell _anyone_ this Michael. He’ll kill me. But I saw him. I saw Haywood without the mask and he’s going to kill me if I say anything and I just told you about the mask thing and fuck Geoff said I was too lippy.” He babbled out all at once. 

The radio buzzed into the moment of quiet, playing some popular, vapid song to fill in the lull of the conversation as Michael drove on in silence and Gavin fretted in the passenger seat, twiddling his thumbs. “You saw Ryan without the mask.” Michael finally stated, in a tiny whisper filled with awe. “What did he look like? Was he scary? Did he look all crazy?” 

Blinking at the enthusiasm, it took Gavin an additional moment to reply. “No… no he didn’t. He looked normal. He looked like… like y’know, an academic? Clever. Handsome I guess? But not really all that crazy. Or scary. Maybe that’s why he wears the mask, to hide himself and give him the crazy killer persona.” 

The Adder screeched into a parking space outside their usual haunt, cutting Gavin off before he could postulate any further about Haywood’s cracked mental state. “C’mon, let’s go get bevved up.”

With that, those same demanding hands dragged him from the sports car and into the dim bar, vaguely lit with dying neon and fragranced with the thick smell of questionable life choices. Pushed into the crew's own cubicle, Free sat there, slightly dazed, until Michael pushed a drink into his hands and sat opposite him, his presence a reassurance to Gavin's anxiously fluttering heart. "You feelin' like you're in too deep buddy?" His friend asked under his breath, eyes flicking to the rest of the establishment for a moment. 

The answer was an empty nod.

"It's okay. I feel it too. Had to transport these migrants the other day and pretend it was all okay, like where they were going was better, that their work was going to be good and not just some glorified form of slavery. Selling people just seems so _wrong_ y'know? Like... I just wanted to drive fast cars and get a little excitement... and now... this..." The expression on Jones' face was that of a man haunted by his own past: guilt and moral dilemmas ghosting over the driver's face like vague echoes of history. 

"I have to hang out with a serial killer and ply him for information... I just wanted some freedom, not this. Not Haywood." The troubled Brit murmured into his drink, fingers pressed hard against the glass. Whatever Michael had bought him smelled strong (which was fine - he needed something strong). He began to drink, warmth spreading through him, increasing the more he drank. He welcomed that feeling, held it close, let himself go little by little, the anxiety melting away. 

Michael was talking to him, something about Crew matters - but he couldn’t really connect with what was happening - as if he was watching his own life muted. Something about Ramsey, about his task, about maskless Ryan, about demolition… just things he usually asked, nothing new or special (well the maskless Haywood was, but there was no way Jones would push too hard; he was just curious, not unlike Gavin).

“He was really pretty Michael.” He remembered himself mumbling into what might have been his third drink or fifth. Or: “Geoff is a big softie about us lot.” Even: “Yeah, C4 is pretty safe and easy to work with… not as good as semtex but that’s hard to get what with terrorists...” After that, it was all a little blurry, but it didn’t matter. He trusted Michael to drive them back safely.

It was his job. 

So why was he cold and alone in the streets? Why were the neon lights so bright? Why did they bleed into the darkness into such pretty abstract patterns? He didn’t understand. Where was his boy? 

He stumbled through the streets, not sure where he was going or what he was doing but knowing he couldn’t just stay put. Gavin was a wanted man, vulnerable, lost in the middle of Los Santos’ red light district. Begging to be arrested. 

The darkened allyways seemed inviting, the dank dusky depths a sharp contrast to the bright colours that swirled around him. There he slumped down, between two dumpsters, and stared up at the bleached out sky, stars outcompeted by the city’s lights. Time dragged on, the faint sounds of shouting or a police siren or the rumble of a cars engine drifting past his ears. Mount Chiliad and his bed seemed a long way off, but it didn’t really matter to his drink-addled mind.  


**~~~**

No one really knew where Haywood went after the criminal ‘day’ was done, but sometimes his post-occupational hobbies happened to involve a few homicides, just to keep the crazy in him satisfied. The bums, the sluts, the junkies - who missed the washed-up driftwood of capitalism? Dispose of them well, keep it clean and the police didn’t bother you and you didn’t bother them. You were helping them deal with the vast homelessness problem, albeit in an unorthodox and unsavoury manner. LSPD eyes turned elsewhere when Haywood disposed of some of those ‘problems’. The red-light district was the time-honoured haunt of all of the above, a hunting ground for a serial killer like himself. A dark alley his backdrop, the homeless waif sat between two dumpsters his co-star. The dumb thing was drunk out of his mind, not even noticing the skull-faced man prowling toward him, busy staring at the sky. Haywood yanked him up to stand, let his shaky legs hold him steady. He didn’t feel like weapons tonight; fists were fine.

Chrome sunglasses hid his victim’s eyes, but the vacant expression, the mouth hanging open just a tad… seemed familiar. “...Ry...an.” The drunk mumbled. 

Then it clicked. 

Of course. A wasted Gavin David Free. Irritation flooded his body as he clutched the collar of the useless man’s shirt. Evidently he’d wandered off from whoever was treating him. Free was lucky that today had already included enough murder to tide him over for the day, or he’d have ended the night with a few pretty bruises to decorate his skin. Lucky Ryan couldn’t beat his new partner-in-crime to within an inch of his life. With a resigned sigh, the older man looped an arm around the swaying Brit’s waist and tugged off his own mask, slowly guiding him to his car. He was just a friend helping Free home now, not a serial killer tasked to keep an idiot lacking basic survival skills safe. It was not an uncommon sight in the district for drunkards to be shepherded off into cars (for better or for worse) and dealt with (benignly or maliciously), so nobody batted an eyelid when Gavin protested in a slurred voice, only to be pushed more firmly into the vehicle. 

With Free laying on his back seat making sounds suspiciously close to retching, and Ryan sitting in the driving seat stiffly manoeuvring his car through the quiet midnight street, knuckles white with the cruel grip with which he clutched the wheel, the two headed to the little-known abode of ‘James’ Haywood. The civilian skulking ground of a prolific serial killer.

At some point Free threw up. At a similar point Haywood developed a headache. 

It was when he practically slung the drunk over his shoulder to ferry the man into his house that Gavin mumbled something that sounded closer to sober. “Don’ kill me…” Perhaps not sober, but coherent. The killer wasn’t sure that was a step-up. 

“I’m not allowed.” He reassured the Brit through gritted teeth. If he had been allowed, the man would be long gone. 

The headache had developed into a migraine once Gavin had finally been coaxed to sleep with the minimal amount of death threats Ryan could manage. As he stared down at the idiot sprawled over his bed, drool glistening at the corner of the snoring mouth that hung open in sleep, Haywood decided a revision of opinion about his new partner was in order:

James Ryan Haywood _despised_ Gavin David Free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's the introductory chapters dealt with - next chapter the real plot begins!


	3. Hostile Understandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers and hellish companions alike, Free and Haywood take on their first task as 'partners'.

Gavin was no stranger to a good old fashioned hangover – it came with the post – but somehow this one felt worse than the majority of those he’d had to suffer before. It didn’t help that he had no memory of last night past clambering into Michael’s Adder for bevs. _Must’ve gone a little crazy on the alcohol last night_ , he thought before deciding that thinking was probably a bad idea because _fuck_ if his head didn’t throb like something was trying to claw its way out.

Opening a bleary eye to a room that was much too light, he groaned softly and made to bury his face in the pillow, only to freeze. This wasn’t his room at Chiliad. It wasn’t even Michael’s room. Actually, he wasn’t even sure if he was at Chiliad at all. It was much too neat, the walls a sparkling white that, combined with the sun shining through the windows, were much too bright for a groggy and hung over Brit. He supposed he’d gone home with someone, maybe some pretty bird, but he couldn’t remember. Underground mountain bases weren’t known for their stunning cleanliness and _windows_. The pillow his face was buried in didn’t smell much like a woman’s pillow, he realised slowly, it smelt like aftershave. Peculiarly familiar aftershave. Not his own, no, but it was a recognisable scent. It was just that he couldn’t put a finger on who smelt like that. 

It wasn’t too long before another quick sweep of the room gave it away. A small feature that nagged at Gavin’s brain long enough for him to risk climbing out of the unknown bed to study it further. A little certificate hung up on the far wall. ‘James Ryan Haywood’ was the name on the paper, fancy with its embossed details and glimmering gold decoration. It was a diploma for Economics with a minor in Politics (a rather illustrious combination in Gavin’s mind), framed nicely and put up for show. It took the Brit a moment, but the dread dawned on him soon after. He was in _Haywood’s_ house and Ryan wasn’t Haywood’s first name - an interesting aside he filed away for later. 

About the same time as Gavin found himself beginning to panic, the door to the bedroom was opened by a grumpy un-masked serial killer, who glanced at Gavin with irritation. “How the fuck did you manage to get your pants off in the night?” Was the first thing he said. Secondly: “Stop looking at my diploma.” As a reply to both, Free looked down to find himself clad only in a very crumpled shirt that desperately required ironing (and smelt suspiciously like vomit) and his boxers. 

“Bloody hell.” He muttered to himself, clutching his forehead to try and ease the throbbing headache. “What happened last night? I don’t remember…” 

Ryan interrupted him impatiently. “I found you sitting in some back alley completely smashed. Couldn’t leave you there unless I wanted to be chewed out by Ramsey, so I took you back and locked you in my bedroom so you didn’t end up getting yourself killed.” This was met by a suspicious glance from Free, who was evidently thinking up an alternate scenario that probably involved _something else_ by the way he kept checking his lower half. “You threw up all over my car, by the way.” Haywood added to take his colleague’s mind off his own crotch. 

“Bugger.” Was the Oxfordshire man’s response, though Haywood wasn’t sure it was aimed at him, because the Brit’s eyes were still pointedly staring at his lower half. When Gavin did look up, he looked a little embarrassed, worried and absolutely terrified. His cheeks glowing a soft pink in the morning sunlight, his brow creased and his legs shaking ever so slightly, he took in Ryan’s appearance, which seemed so remarkably _normal_ compared to the sight he was used to. The man standing in the doorway was a little taller than average; broad shouldered; his hair a soft, almost golden, brown, messy with a cowlick to one side; slight stubble on his chin; highlighting a handsome jawline. The blue eyes that Gavin was so used to seeing ice-cold and framed by greasepaint were almost warm but in no way friendly as they studied him he felt like a piece of meat under the murderer’s gaze.

“...are you going to put pants on or are you going to stand in my bedroom in boxers all morning?” Ryan interjected, finding himself feeling a little uncomfortable under Free’s scrutiny, though he turned to leave as he spoke. He hated to be without the mask, but he couldn’t wear it in his house in his sleepy suburban neighbourhood without arousing suspicion. Rustling from behind him alerted him to the search of his ‘guest’ for pants. He wondered how Gavin had even managed to persuade Geoff he was competent. Also how Gavin was even alive. Mostly the latter. People like him usually wound up as the victims of crime rather than criminals. Hell, Gavin had almost ended up as one of his innumerable victims. 

Haywood supposed he ought to offer the currently pants-less man something to eat or drink. Perhaps if he hadn’t covered his car’s interior with the contents of his stomach (which Ryan had scrubbed off as soon as Gavin was safely contained in his bedroom) he would be more up to playing the good host. But he was not the ‘good host’ - he was a stupid Brit’s babysitter. 

Secretly, Gavin was using his ‘search’ to be a nosy prick. Rummaging through the bedstand (nothing interesting there per se - a few condoms, a random novel about the economy, the usual fare), checking the diploma again (nothing too eye catching there either, aside from Ryan’s first name) and then looking around the room. The man was paranoid with a room furnished sparsely, walls white, carpet a generic cream colour, a standard bed and the rest of the furnishings equally simple - there was nothing you could use to get a read on the mysterious Haywood. Defeated, he managed to find his pants (somehow wedged under the bed) before pausing. Under the bed? It wouldn’t be that obvious would it? Slowly, he used his phone - which had been stuffed in his back pocket and luckily had not managed to escape him - to light up the dark there.

Nothing. It had been worth a shot. The creak of floorboards warned Gavin of his host’s impending arrival and he tugged on his pants before opening the door in a hurry. Haywood stood there, looking no less amused than before. “Had fun in there Free? Stop snooping. Unless you want to end up dead. I mean, if that’s what you want, I’m happy to oblige.” Frozen in place, Free wondered how he knew. Either way, he was not helping their new 'partnership' blossom much. 

“I just was looking for my pants.” He lied, rather lamely. Even Haywood seemed disappointed. Hanging his head, Gavin resigned himself to the uncomfortable silence. He supposed his new partner would not let him live this down. “..I…” He began, only to decide to shut up permanently. He had to stop being lippy after all. The guy already hated him enough. 

Seeing Free fall silent, Ryan smirked. “Well I see you found your pants, so now we’re going to Chiliad to see what Ramsey needs of us.” 

___

The drive in had been awkward, with Gavin glued almost religiously to his phone, texting Michael (who seemed more than apologetic for losing him the night before). The text tone of Free’s phone was one of the most irritating things Haywood had ever heard - the fake ‘wah’ of a child rang through the car every other second - and it was all he could do to stop himself pulling over and kicking Gavin out of his still foul-smelling vehicle. This didn’t stop him from clutching the steering wheel with shaking hands and driving a little more recklessly than normal however.

Either way they got to the mountain base in the end, Free blissfully ignorant to how much he was pissing his driver off the entire way, even when Ryan used a red light’s pause to tug his signature mask into place with a soft growl and with movements more staccato than usual. Haywood had rung ahead to announce their arrival so the blast doors were open and waiting for them, Caleb stood there with an SMG in his hands as protection from any snooping vigilante wannabes. He had a new face by his side, evidently another fresh acquisition in the middle of training. That was Caleb’s job after all: a talent scout and teacher of criminal methods. Neither of the pair noticed as Ryan roared into the tunnels, screeching to a halt in front of Matt who had been about to leave the garage. 

“H-holy fuck Hayw-” He began in a shocked voice, only to be interrupted when the man who had almost run him over threw him the car keys with a look like death. “... what would you like me to do?” Bragg finished instead, understanding not to push the man.

With a sigh, Ryan shrugged. “Free decided to throw up in there last night. Do you know anyone who can clean the stink out of it?” The mechanic nodded in reply with a sideways glance at Gavin who pointedly turned his gaze away and followed behind his partner toward Ramsey’s office. It wouldn’t do to say something stupid and rile the murderer up further.

It was Haywood who tentatively knocked on the door and waited for a cocky-seeming Geoff to open the door. “You two came in together I hear.” He commented with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe and eyeing the pair: Haywood’s scowl evident even behind the plastic mask and Free’s eyes focused elsewhere. When he strolled back into his office with a flick of his hand as permission for his underlings to follow, it was evident the night before had not aided their relationship. “So… what happened last night then? I don’t think you two would willingly end up coming in together, so tell me the truth?”

Swallowing, Free spoke up. “Mich- Jones and I went out drinking sir. I must’ve gotten far too drunk and wandered off. I don’t remember what happened after that, I suppose Haywood found me…” He glanced over at the masked man who stood away from him, hoping he’d explain what had occurred next. 

“I found Free in an alleyway while on my own private business. I supposed that it would be bad taste to leave my new partner lying in the street for anyone to find, so I took him back to my civilian house and ensured he stayed out of trouble for the rest of the night.” Ryan finished for him, keeping his voice neutral and soft - emotionless. From the years he’d worked under Ramsey, he knew for a fact it irritated his boss when he sounded emotionally detached. Made him unreadable, mysterious. If anything, the only emotions he regularly supplied those around him with were mild annoyance and, occasionally, anger. 

On cue, Ramsey’s brow furrowed with annoyance, prompting the Georgian to grin, the stretch of his lips hidden by the mask. “Whatever, you two have some collecting to do. Nice and easy, go to the dealers down by the Pleasure Pier and Vespucci Beach, get our share of their profits, scare ‘em a bit. Make sure they know who’s in charge of the area.” It was a good area to be in control of - lots of recreational drug users to turn a profit, a good gathering of prostitutes for a little extra spending money - plus once they’d persuaded the businesses on the Pleasure Pier to pay for their ‘protection’ it had ended up generating a very, very tidy profit. Quite a kick in the teeth for its previous owners - RWBY. The Fake AH Crew was in no way in control of the city - it was a small time player in the hidden forces that battled for Los Santos - but it was growing, and growing _strong_. Geoff had no doubts that in a few months they’d be ready to push the RWBY lot off their perch at the top of the criminal food chain. And yes, they were set up a significant distance from the city, but fast cars solved all distance issues - they owned a quarter of the city and the majority of that was in West Los Santos - a rich but depraved enough area that their services were needed. What a place to send his two little problems off on their first collaborative mission as a pair. 

Haywood was tempted to bow, or do something equally as scathing to irritate Ramsey further for this _joke_ of a partnership. However, Ramsey was a vindictive man once angered, so Ryan held his tongue and merely gave his boss a short nod. Free hadn’t spoken a word, caught up in his own hangover probably. It didn’t concern the masked man. This was his job through and through. Intimidation was his field of expertise. What did Gavin do that was useful in this situation? His detailed knowledge of explosives and the chemistry and circuitry that went with them was a boon - but not here. This was Haywood’s time to shine (as if he had not done so already). “No problem sir. We’ll have your money soon.” He promised before striding out of the office, Free catching Ramsey’s gaze for a moment to mouth ‘why _him_ ’ silently before trotting after Haywood. 

Automatically, as soon as he saw that blasted motorcycle, Gavin retched. No way he was ever getting on that hellish vehicle ever again. “Fuck no, you drive like a fucking madman Ry-” He stopped himself as the ghoulish skull snapped to stare at him, the word ‘madman’ stinging his partner with a small jolt. Gavin swore he could see the man’s metaphorical hackles raise as a long tense breath rattled against the plastic of his mask. 

“I. Am. Not. A. Madman.” Ryan forced out through gritted teeth. “I‘m not mad.” 

_Debatable_. Free thought but dared not to vocalise with his partner so irate. Heck, he could see the man trying to keep himself from throttling his scrawny neck - he was practically shaking. Probably best to stay quiet. He should feel scared, he knew that. 

He’d felt scared before. When he saw Ryan without the mask the first time. Somehow he was more terrifying when he’d finally seemed human. No longer a personification of death, Ryan had stood in that alleyway, all anger and frustration and looked as human as Gavin and his friends, and that was what had scared him most. Even though he was a newer member of the crew, he’d seen the corpses mutilated by the killer’s hand, he’d heard the tales of those unfortunate to be the man’s victims. Haywood had been a god of death, black greasepaint and skeletal mask integral to his character. Without it, he was unstable, no longer a character but a mess. A mess of anger and fear and who knew what else, bubbling like soda in a shaken bottle - the more people like Geoff tried to twist the top, the closer they were to the bubbles reaching the critical mass that had the drink spilling out uncontrollably - closer to Haywood snapping. As if Haywood hadn’t snapped before - no Gavin could guess he would break further - that this was nothing. 

But now, with Ryan struggling to keep his irrational fury down, he seemed weak. Controlled by a broken mind that compelled him into the persona he carried so proudly within the dark underworld of Los Santos. So Haywood could mangle a human body into little more than a mess of blood and bone but he couldn’t even control his own brain - was that strength? A weaker man that Gavin would feel pity. Gavin felt disgust. All those months spent fearing the man were worthless. There was nothing to fear here. Only something broken that happened to function even while still in pieces. 

Even so, Haywood was still a murderous madman. However cocky Gavin felt, it wouldn’t do to tempt Ryan closer to killing him. “C’mon, I’ll get on your bloody motorcycle if you drive nicely this time.” Seeing Free change subject calmly irked Ryan, but he climbed onto his bike expectantly, his British baggage clambering on behind him. 

Pressed into the trademark leather jacket that Ryan tended to wear on all but the hottest days, Gavin could feel the tension in those powerful muscles, the slight shake as the man forced calm upon himself - it reminded him of a big cat. Tense, muscular, ready to spring at any time - power and majesty wired into thick shoulders and a lithe form. Once, it would have impressed him, but now it just felt like another reason Ryan was weak - those animalistic urges that he so easily he fell to. 

The ride to the beach was long, uneventful, pretty if Gavin had time for such boring things like landscapes and the way the morning sun stretched the shadows over the ground, a blue cloudless sky and the beginnings of the warmth that seeped into the asphalt and into their clothes, the earthy smell of baked soil and the soft crash of the sea as they sped along the Great Ocean Highway. Deep blue sparkling on their right and the heights of Mount Josiah to their left, Gavin saw it all, took it in and threw it away, busy with more important worries, like checking his inventory of explosives and weapons hidden in his own leather jacket (a tasteful brown in comparison to the ‘wannabe thug’ black look that Ryan wore) - a pistol and a few sticky bombs he’d made a few days prior - not a bad haul but it wouldn’t help if they did run into trouble. After all, he was a terrible shot. 

This time, Ryan drove normally, though he had a habit of leaning into corners just so that made Gavin have to grip the motorcycle seat just that much harder with his legs, heart in his throat and arms pinwheeling before settling around his driver’s waist, much to the pair’s displeasure. Fort Zancudo passed with little interest, past Ryan muttering something akin to ‘one day’ which missed Gavin’s ears due to the howl of the wind as they sped underneath the military base. The highway was fairly bustling that morning, but the bike slipped between gaps in the traffic with practiced ease, quickly covering the distance to Los Santos. 

Their first destination - the Pleasure Pier - was in sight now, the iconic Ferris Whale methodically rotating, the neon lights along its circumference straining to outcompete the natural light in vain, red and purple washed out in the hot sun that had finally decided to come out and play. Already the beaches were carpeted with people and their assorted belongings, much to Ryan’s irritation. His job was much easier when there weren’t a huge number of witnesses happy to call the cops on him. Dealers generally skulked away in the alleys beyond the view of most of the tourists, but if it got nasty (and it did, regularly) then it tended to spill onto the boulevard. It was nothing a quick call to Kdin couldn’t fix - man was a whiz with computers, but it was frustrating to have to deal with law enforcement while the kid worked his magic. 

He’d have to carry Gavin’s dead weight on this task - both of them knew it. Because Gavin couldn’t do _words_ and Gavin couldn’t do _scary_ and against the odds Ryan could do words and he could do scary. A good education and a skull mask were conducive to both of those aspects. 

So Gavin was tasked to watching the motorcycle while Haywood stalked into the alleyways off Vespucci Beach, his eyes alone enough to make a rookie drug dealer piss themselves. His appearance, his reputation - it was enough for the squatters in the small street to hand over the money without complaint, without explanation. And despite himself, it had the man sighing with relief. And the quota was almost complete with just the three wastes of space in the alley - either business had been good or the piss in their pants was making them feel extra generous this fine morning. 

Prowling through the shadowed streets (the sun wasn’t high enough in the sky to release them from the cool shade just yet), the money practically rolled in and it was fucking empowering to have the scum of the city roll over and hand him wads of cash of their own free will. It took him about half an hour to clear out the backstreets - emerging with the backpack he’d had the foresight to bring bulging with the reapings of a good haul. Turning his eyes from the dazzling glitter of the morning sun on the sea, he spotted Gavin, still leaning against his bike, chatting with a few random people. Slinging the pack over his shoulder with a grunt (who knew so much money had such surprising weight to it), he made his way over, only to see that Gavin wasn’t so much chatting as _arguing_ and the people Ryan took as strangers are wearing gang colours. Not any gang colours, but RWBY colours. Newer to the scene, Free wouldn’t have known, but to a veteran like Haywood the colour combination of red, white, black and yellow were enough to trigger memories of that shootout all those years ago. RWBY were there and Gavin had engaged them like a goddamn amateur. Talk about a newbie. 

Snippets of their argument drifted over to Ryan, the taunts of the nameless RWBY-ites, the way his idiotic partner rose to every single one. He knew he had to grab Gavin and run, cursed his mask for once - it was so iconic now that even the tourists are scared, one reaching for their mobile phone in his peripheral vision. _Don’t you fucking call the cops,_ he thought bitterly as he weighed up his limited options. And there wasn't a sensible safe option this time, he realised as he pulled a revolver out of his jacket and loaded it with fingers that shook just a little. They did that when he was stressed, shrink had told him the medicine would solve it but fuck if Ryan could have afforded it back then. Now he could, but it was too late to worry about that now. With his revolver in his hand, he sprinted toward his partner who stopped and turned with the RWBY-ites, mouth a perfect little ‘o’ of shock as Haywood grabbed him round his waist and tugged him onto the bike as he noticed one of the thugs had begun to pull a gun.

He accelerated for their lives, the bike growling in protest as they shot off and Gavin squawked, almost falling off with the sudden burst of speed. The first gunshot exploded in their ears behind them and it whizzed off mark to their right. Gavin’s arms were tight around his waist and Ryan thought he could feel the man’s face pressed to his backpack but he couldn’t waste precious thoughts on what a cuddly motherfucker the moron was when he was driving to the absolute limit of his vehicle, the motor whining beneath them as it strained to perform what Ryan asked of it. 

There was a few wasted potshots from the gang members left behind in the dust, and fuck if Haywood’s heart wasn’t thudding in his chest, blood thumping in his ears and knuckles white on the handlebar as he let himself slow the bike down to something a little closer to the speed limit. He could hear Gavin mumbling something akin to ‘bollocksing bollocks’ into the pack. Ryan couldn’t lie, that had been quite a shock. Regardless of his personal feelings for his partner, he was professional enough that to see Gavin stood there surrounded by rival gang members was enough to put his brain on red alert. Because even if he despised that manchild more than anything in the universe there was one thing he hated more - RWBY. 

The ones who had torn his life out from under his feet, sent him into this downward spiral that had him killing at least one person a week, made him dependent on some shitty plastic mask for comfort, ruined everything he had worked for just so his little rural family could afford something nicer than the shack they’d all packed into for his childhood. No, he didn’t think Gavin could ever surpass that level of hatred in his mind. 

The trip back was silent but calm. Near death experiences tended to do that to you - wore you out, made you grateful for what you had. So Ryan was merely grateful to have a backpack of money strapped to his back, Gavin clinging onto him and his motorcycle speeding through what was undoubtedly beautiful countryside. Nerves jittery, he had to slow down. It was no good riding a motorcycle at top speed along the highway if his shaking hands were about to let him down any moment. So he turned off the highway into the cool shade of Banham Canyon, pulled over and coaxed his partner’s arms from around his waist with surprising gentleness before dismounting the bike and plonking himself in the dirt. Watching helplessly as his hands shook, he took deep focused breaths, willed himself to slow the rush of blood through his veins and still the slideshow of memories that bubbled their way to the surface every time he saw those godforsaken colours. 

Free, thank god, didn’t comment. Didn’t sneer. For the first time, Haywood thought that perhaps Ramsey had made the right decision and that maybe everyone in the Fake AH Crew had their own demons they battled. He didn’t know the Brit’s, the Brit didn’t know his, but they were both satisfied to make allowances. When Gavin came over, cautious like Ryan was a scared dog ready to snap (and he was, oh god he was, he could feel the fractures in his own brain acutely) and sat slowly by his side, it didn’t bother him like it should. It didn’t irk him when Gavin breathed out a soft ‘cheers Haywood’ and lay down in the dust with a stupid relieved grin on his face. 

And they sat there, together, Ryan chaining himself back together to a backing track of Free’s slow soft breaths while the sun rose in the sky, hot and unforgiving but welcome to both. If it had been anyone else but Free, who he’d saved twice now (once from himself, his mind reminded him), he wouldn’t let this weakness overtake him. But it was Free, who owed Ryan more than he probably could care to think about, and Haywood knew that even the gossipy Brit wouldn’t dare breathe a word of this. His hands no longer shook as he took a deep breath and lay down next to the idiot who caused the whole skirmish in the first place, silent as they both stared at a blue and cloudless sky. 

“That was close, huh?” Gavin murmured, eyes still trained on the endless blue. 

With a long huff, Haywood replied with a simple: “Yeah.” 

“‘m sorry. I should’ve known. I’m a bit of an idiot sometimes.” The comment made Ryan smile a little. 

“Just sometimes.” Haywood deadpanned, eyes shining with dry humour. Free leant over to punch his arm slightly. 

“Don’t be a prick.” 

The easy, playful conversation continued, soft and spoken to the sky. Ryan felt himself smiling despite it all, and Gavin felt himself drop his guard just a little, to let his facade of the loveable idiot fall away a smidge. Together they revelled in the sheer ridiculousness of it all - the gang, the crimes, the murder, the money. It was like a movie, but real. With consequences. Death stalked their heels, but somehow it seemed humorous laying there in the mountains. The animosity welled beneath them - Gavin was still an idiot, Ryan was still a mass murderer but at that moment, it didn’t matter. They were both alive for the time being and that was a blessing in itself. 

When finally the two mounted the motorcycle once more, dusty and warm and content, it felt like a slither of the barrier between them had fallen away. Though it didn’t stop Ryan growling in irritation as Gavin made one of his trademark squeaks when they set off, and it didn’t stop Gavin from leaning away just slightly from Haywood as they drove through the winding country lanes. 

Even professionals got scared sometimes, they lied to themselves. It was acceptable to need a break. (Even though they were both old players in this game of power and deception, both had had guns pointed at them many times before, both had killed a man before that day, both knew the dangers that came with their occupations and there was no excuse for this.) 

They parted their ways once inside Chiliad. Gavin to the rec room, Haywood to the shooting range. The silence was hostility but also understanding. They didn’t have to like each other after all. 

At the end of the day they were both professionals.

It didn’t do to put emotions before work.

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for a lack of updates but I'm finally out of school so should be able to post more regularly!


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